Damage Control (31 page)

She stepped down hard on his foot and at the same time whipped her head backward, smashing the bridge of his nose. Meyers stumbled, blood flowing down his face, but the gun still in hand. Logan and the officers pulled their weapons. He repeatedly exhorted Meyers to drop the gun. Meyers twisted his neck, the vertebrae popping and cracking, and looked at them as if just noticing them for the first time. Then he smiled, raised the gun, and pulled the trigger.

62

T
HE NEWS OF
Robert Meyers’s suicide exploded across the state and the nation, erupting on the afternoon newscasts and spreading quickly to the front page of special editions of the
Times
and the
Post-Intelligencer
. Television stations interrupted scheduled broadcasts. It became the lead news story on CNN, MSNBC, and the other national news networks—national coverage of the grandest proportion. No coverage was too much. No story was too small. Camera crews and news reporters camped outside the locked gate to the Highlands. Helicopters broadcast shots of the Meyers family compound until police helicopters patrolled the skies.

Washingtonians watched the news in stunned silence. In downtown eating establishments and bars, from the Pike Place Market to Pioneer Square, televisions were tuned to news of the event. Patrons mumbled in low-level disbelief. Those old enough to remember said it was like the day John F. Kennedy died. Those younger likened it to the day the space shuttle
Columbia
exploded or to 9/11, events that would forever change the world. Everyone would remember exactly where he or she had been when ABC News correspondent Bill Donovan broke the story that presidential candidate Robert Samuel Meyers was dead. A helpless feeling caused most to simply stare dumbfounded at the television, considering in silence what had actually happened and what the ramifications would be.

Footage showed Meyers being rushed by ambulance to Northwest Hospital, but it was a formality. He had been pronounced dead at the scene. The news hung over Seattle like the persistent gray, an event that transcended race, gender, and social status. People who would never again speak with one another were suddenly bonded by a familiar topic. They said it was more than the death of a man. It was the death of another generation’s dreams and hopes. It left them feeling hollow and, unlike the assassination of John Kennedy, without anyone at which to direct their anger. There was no Lee Harvey Oswald to vilify. They could only stand in shock and disbelief, asking why. The question started as an almost imperceptible murmur, but by the end of the day, it had grown to a chorus of millions. At a candlelight vigil held outside the gates, everyone wanted to know what had happened. It didn’t make any sense. When no clear answers emerged, the public began to speculate, as only Americans could, and rumors spread quickly that there was more to the suicide than was being revealed.

For two weeks, Elizabeth Meyers healed in seclusion, unseen and unheard from except at the formal affairs—funeral and burial. Then one afternoon she appeared unexpectedly on the front lawn of the family compound to address the press. Dressed in black, standing behind a throng of microphones affixed to a podium, she stoically announced to the American public that she was a fraud. She told them she and her husband had had marital difficulties, that Robert Meyers had been verbally and physically abusive, and despite the conception of their first child, she had recently informed her husband of her intention to end their marriage. She said Meyers had become despondent and irrational and that his behavior had caused her to flee the compound two nights before he took his own life. She returned after he called to plead that she meet with him and talk things over.

Meyers’s security staff and house servants would confirm those details. They spoke of a man in a heightened emotional state, agitated and irrational. They reported that he had sent several of his security staff out in search of his wife, demanding that they bring her home. Others would come forward to report having overheard violent clashes between the couple. From there, the rumors spread like the tributaries of a river, and it would be quite some time before Washington and Hollywood had its fill of the story. Dozens of people would become wealthy writing accounts of life in the Meyers compound.

Elizabeth Meyers apologized to the nation for what she termed a deceptive public persona and said she had chosen to reveal the truth because she had a duty to be a role model, as her husband had repeatedly demanded. She said she hoped her own public acknowledgment would help women similarly situated to find the courage to change their lives, and she said she would use her abilities and wealth to influence government agencies to help them. Her news conference was both hailed and assailed. Some questioned her motivation to cleanse her soul and ruin the image of the fair-haired young senator with the charming smile. Like those people who continued to cling to their perception of Kennedy’s Camelot despite the stories of his infidelity, they did not want their perception shattered by reality. They wanted to believe in the man who had so confidently vowed to lead the nation on a course of change. They didn’t want to see cracks in their leaders or believe that the men they elevated to bronze busts and marble statues were really just men with all the same flaws and weaknesses. They didn’t want to know that Robert Meyers, stripped of his outer garments, was an abusive husband. They wanted the fairy tale. They wanted the storybook ending. They wanted a return to Camelot.

Those were not the people to whom Elizabeth Meyers addressed her comments. She spoke instead to the verbally and physically abused women, and to them she became a modern-day Joan of Arc. She brought attention to a problem that had been far too long ignored, a problem that the O. J. Simpson fiasco had only exacerbated, and that had left so many similarly situated women feeling hollow and empty.

As for Dana’s quest for justice, she and Elizabeth decided that any announcement of Meyers’s involvement in James’s murder would only serve to ruin the lives of those left behind—most notably Elizabeth and James’s unborn child. It would be a selfish act that James would not have wanted.

The day after her press conference, Elizabeth Meyers left the compound. Staff within the compound walls would later report that she left nearly everything behind, taking only one small suitcase. Her clothes, perfumes, strands of pearls, diamonds, and other jewelry were given to a cook named Carmen Dupree. Elizabeth returned to southern California, not far from the small beach town where she had been raised. She implored the press to allow her to raise her child in peace.

Dana Hill had left the compound through the servants’ entrance in the trunk of Michael Logan’s car. She thought it fitting. She returned to her mother’s home and stayed several days. It was while standing in the kitchen, making a cup of tea, that she heard the news on the radio about Elizabeth Meyers’s plane landing at the airport in La Jolla. Dana wondered if the woman would ever find peace, or if she would, tragically, end up like Jacqueline Onassis and Princess Diana.

The following morning, Dana faced the inevitable task of cleaning out her office. As she filled boxes, she felt the floor outside her door tremor but made no effort to reach for the telephone. She no longer cared when the door burst open and Marvin Crocket stepped inside. His face was flushed red, a sinister smile on his lips. “Two weeks without any calls to check in? It’s over. I have the support—”

In the midst of his tirade, Crocket had apparently missed the boxes and the empty shelves. When it finally occurred to him what he was witnessing, he reacted as if somehow being cheated out of the pleasure of firing her. His eyes widened, and the smile disappeared. “What the hell are you doing?”

Dana pulled a diploma off the wall and slid it into the box. “I’m leaving.”

“You’re quitting?”

Dana smiled. “You were always a quick learner. Nothing escapes your trained legal eye.”

“You can’t quit. Where will you go? If you think I’m going to let you take a single scrap of paper out of here, a single client, think again.”

Dana turned to him. “Marvin, you are a pompous ass. For three years, you’ve been trying to fire me. Now you’re trying to keep me? Without the specter of employment, do you think there is any chance that you could intimidate me?” She stepped from behind her desk and approached him. He eyed her with caution. His feet, anchored by male ego, refused to budge, but his upper body leaned away from her. “I have a job, a good job with a strong salary, stock options, and flexible work hours. They’ve even agreed to my suggestion that they include a day care at the facility for employees. I can take my daughter there and see her during the day as much as I choose.”

Crocket scoffed, “You’re dreaming. Those places don’t exist.”

“Don’t they? Why don’t you call Don Burnside and ask him if that place exists?”

“Corrugate Industries?” Crocket said with alarm. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I didn’t have to. Don called me. He loved my presentation, and truth be told, I think he likes my blue eyes. I begin next week as in-house counsel. Linda will be coming with me.”

Crocket’s bottom jaw hung near his chest.

Dana went on. “Look at the positives. You got rid of us both, which is what you wanted. And I won’t be taking any of the firm’s files. I will, however, be in need of outside counsel to assist with litigation and business matters. I can’t possibly handle the legal issues confronting what has grown to a multimillion-dollar business on my own. Send me your résumé. I’ll consider it.”

She winked at him, then went back behind her desk and picked up a letter opener. “Now, if you don’t mind,” she said, turning to him, “I need to finish clearing out my office, and I would appreciate it if you would knock before you barge in here.”

Epilogue

W
HAT SHE NOTICED
was how easily her blouse buttoned. Putting the small glass bead into the stitched hole required little effort at all. Dana held up her hand and examined it. No shakes. Not the slightest movement. They had performed another mammogram, this time with a small wire inserted into her breast to identify the exact location of the cancerous bump. The surgeon would remove the bump in the morning. It had hurt like hell, but Dana felt at peace.

Her mother sat across the room in a chair, holding Molly in her lap. Her outward composure required a great deal more effort. When she wasn’t entertaining Molly with a book, Kathy’s lips moved, silently praying. Occasionally, she looked up at Dana and smiled, but not a word was spoken between them.

Dana finished buttoning her shirt, tucked it into her blue jeans, and sat next to her mother, holding her hand. There was nothing left but the waiting. After two weeks, she had overcome her feeling that Robert Meyers had cheated her—that his death had been a false justice, without the satisfaction of finding him responsible for her brother’s death. She had wanted him punished like any other American. Like Martha Stewart’s trial and the trial of the Enron executives, it would have proved once and for all that a justice system designed by the people and for the people actually worked for all the people. But that had been a selfish desire, and she had realized it in that horrifying moment when she thought Meyers would kill Elizabeth Meyers.

There had been no blood tests performed on Elizabeth Meyers or her unborn child. There had not been time. Dana had bluffed, knowing from her years as a lawyer that the threat of such information, taken in context with Meyers’s childhood medical records, would be sufficient to convince him there was enough evidence to convict him.

The door to the room opened. Her mother squeezed her hand. Dr. Bridgett Neal came in holding a mammogram in each hand, studying them intently. Neal walked in silence to the small counter at the back of the room, turned on the viewer on the wall, and snapped the two images in place. She stepped back and pondered the X-rays, one arm folded across her chest, the other arm bent, finger tips at her lips. Dana and her mother stood. Kathy put Molly on the blue plastic chair with a copy of Dr. Seuss’s
Green Eggs and Ham
.

Dr. Neal took a deep breath and shook her head.

Kathy, no longer able to control her instincts, shouted out her questions. “What is it? How bad is it?”

Dr. Neal turned to the two women. “They can’t find it.”

Kathy’s voice rose with alarm. “Can’t find it? What do you mean?”

Dana squeezed her mother’s hand. “Mom, calm down.”

“They can’t find the lump,” Neal said. “And neither can I.”

The pain of having her breast flattened between the two plates of glass with a needle and wire inserted through it remained fresh in Dana’s mind. “Don’t tell me I have to go through that again.”

“No. No. The technicians are confident they have all the X-rays they need. They have every possible angle.”

“Then why can’t they find it?” Dana asked.

Neal shrugged. “Because the lump is no longer there.”

Kathy put both hands to her mouth.

“What do you mean, not there?” Dana asked.

“It’s gone. It’s completely gone.” Neal’s face contorted in a pained expression. “It’s possible, I suppose, that it was some type of cyst and, when punctured, over time, shrank, but…”

As Bridgett Neal defined in medical possibilities what could have happened to the cancerous lump in Dana’s breast, Dana heard a different voice, the voice of a troll-like English gentleman. She felt William Welles’s hand on her arm and heard him whisper in her ear as he handed her the bag of tea:
Drink it every day with sugar until it is gone
.

Dana had finished the bag that morning. She and her mother each had a cup. She had assumed Welles had meant to drink the tea until it was gone, but she now understood that wasn’t what he had meant at all.

Neal continued, “I have to tell you, however, that I have never seen this before. In fifteen years of practice, I have never seen a lump just disappear. Nor have I misdiagnosed a cyst. Dana?”

“Hmm?”

“I know this must be a shock to you. I can’t explain it, I’m sorry.”

Dana smiled. “Don’t be. I’m not.”

“I feel badly that I put you through this. I don’t know what could have happened.”

“Some things in life can’t be explained, Dr. Neal. It’s why we still have miracles.”

Neal shook her head. “As much as I would like to believe you, I have to caution you not to get too carried away with this. I’m sure there is a diagnostic explanation, and I will continue to review your records and the prior images. In the interim, I am recommending that you have a mammogram every four months for the next year, and every six months thereafter.”

Dana smiled. “Then I’ll see you in four months.” She walked to where Molly sat.

“Green eggs and ham,” Molly said, showing her the book.

Dana picked up the little girl and hugged her, then turned to her mother. “Let’s go home.”

A
S
D
ANA EMERGED
from the Cancer Care Center, she saw the green sports car parked at the curb beneath a no-parking sign. Only a cop could get away with that. Detective Michael Logan leaned against the Austin Healey holding a huge bouquet of red roses, smiling.

Kathy reached over and took Molly, setting the little girl down and holding her hand. “Go,” she said to Dana.

“Are you sure?”

“Go. Carmen will watch her.” At Elizabeth Meyers’s request, Kathy had hired Carmen Dupree, who would not leave her beloved Seattle for Los Angeles, professing that the smog would kill her. But living on the lake, she said, was something she could get used to. The pay was room and board. In return, Carmen baked apple pies and cared for Molly like her own. She told Dana she would teach the little girl the secret ingredients of her pies.

“I have to get ready for tonight. Dr. Porter has asked me to the symphony,” Kathy said, smiling.

Dana hugged her mother, then knelt and kissed her daughter. “I’ll be back later, honey. We have to help Grandma get ready for her big date.”

“Grandmas don’t have dates,” Molly said.

“Yours does,” Dana said. “Make sure you feed Freud and Leonardo. Just one can each this time. They’re getting too fat.”

The little girl stood holding her grandmother’s hand. Dana hugged her mother again, then turned to the car. When she reached Logan, she was unable to keep from grinning. “My divorce isn’t final yet.”

Logan handed her the roses. “I know.”

“Grant is going to make this difficult.”

“I know.”

“I have a child.”

“I know.”

Dana laughed. “And one hell of a lot of baggage.”

Logan turned and opened the car door for her. “I know.”

As she lowered to get into the car, Dana heard her mother calling and turned to see Molly running down the sidewalk toward them, the little girl’s short legs pumping furiously, Kathy in pursuit. Dana turned to Logan.

“Bring her,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. What little girl wouldn’t love a tree house?”

Dana loaded Molly into the Austin Healey, sharing the seat with her. As they sped off, Molly looked up at the sky in amazement. “Mommy, we’re flying. Just like the birds.”

Dana laughed and cradled her tightly. “You’re breaking the law, Detective.”

Logan looked over at her. “Yeah, how’s that?”

“No child seat.” She looked at the back, which didn’t exist. “No seat, period.”

He shrugged. “I’ve been meaning to get a bigger car. Perhaps you could help me pick it out, Molly?”

The little girl smiled. “Can I have an ice cream?”

Logan looked at his watch. “After lunch. You don’t want to spoil your appetite.”

Dana smiled. Was there anything not to like about him?

As they sped across the I-90 bridge, Molly squealed with delight. “Look at the boats.”

Dana looked at Logan. “She’s having fun.”

“How about you? Are you having fun?”

She nodded. “More than I’ve had in a long time.”

They took the exit for Cougar Mountain and started up the hill. Molly kept her head tilted to the sky, partially obscured by the tips of trees and overhanging branches.

“What is that?” Logan asked the question as they made the final turn to the front of the house.

Dana lowered her gaze and saw the metal sculpture at the entrance to Michael Logan’s home, the same sculpture that had stood outside the entrance to William Welles’s home. Logan parked the car, and the three of them got out and walked around it.

“What the heck is it?” Logan asked.

As she circled it, Dana watched the strips of metal bending and twisting, melding together as they had done that day on the mountain above Maui. Before she could answer, Molly spoke.

“They’re dolphins, Mommy.”

And Dana saw them. Two adult dolphins, their bodies entwined around each other, and a third, smaller dolphin below them. “Yes, they are,” Dana said. “That’s exactly what they are.”